


Very Good, Omens!

by maniacalmole



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, WODEHOUSE P. G. - Works
Genre: Gen, Multi, Not a Crossover, in the style of Wodehouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 10:21:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11056950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maniacalmole/pseuds/maniacalmole
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley in the style of a P.G. Wodehouse story, in which they get into some very Wodehousian shenanigans. They technically were around during Wodehouse's time. That doesn't mean they would have actually talked like Bertie Wooster. But if they had...





	Very Good, Omens!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Macdicilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla/gifts).



> Written with the support of macdicilla, who encouraged me in this silliness. Thank you!

                It was around noon that Crowley received a message from Azzy Riffle asking if he wouldn’t mind toddling round to the country manor where he was currently staying as a guest. Crowley expected the old chap must have needed help with some infernal deed or other, something touching on the Arrangement they had made a good while back. He took his Bentley, brand new and gleaming in the sunshine, and sauntered down to White Manor, where Lady Sophia McClanahan-Arthur lived and often invited the two of them to visit.

                He pulled into the graveled path leading up to the manor, parked the car, and got out.

                “Hello, dear boy,” the angel chirped, pottering towards him. “Good of you to come.”

                “Not at all.” Crowley beamed. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

                Aziraphale grew a bit red in the face. “Who is?”

                “The Bentley, of course. This is the first time you’re seeing her, isn’t it? She rode down here like a dream. She swept over the road so smoothly, it was like—why, it was like water running off a duck.”

                “Oh.” The corpuscles retreated from the cheeks of the cherub. “I see. Yes, very nice.”

                Crowley deflated a bit under the angel’s disappointing reaction. “Yes, well. Anyway. What’ve you called me down here for? Some cove in need of a corruption or two? Need me to pop round somewhere and fill in for you with some long-distance saintly workings?”

                “What? No, no, nothing like that. No, the matter I’ve called you here to help me with is of a—er—stickier nature.”

                “Stickier than hellish or heavenly deeds? What are you up to, angel?”

                Before he could answer, there was the sound of another pair of feet clopping down the path. It was Ora, a friend of them both from London.

                Ora was a sturdy girl with a brunette bob and green eyes that always looked at you like they knew everything you had ever done, and were trying to decide if you’d done the right sort of bad things for her to like you or not. She was the sort of girl who tended to look like she’d just gotten home from her time in the navy. Her full name was Oracle Device. Her parents had heard the name Sybil, and had been taken with the idea of naming children after mystical powers. Ora preferred her nickname but lived up to her appellation nonetheless.

                “Hallo, Ora, old thing,” Crowley said, giving a wave.

                “Hello Crowley. I say, that’s a nice car.”

                “Thank you!” The serpent beamed as she swept the vehicle over with an admiring look worthy of the treasure.

                “I was wondering when you’d show up,” she said, turning her gaze, less full of awe but still friendly enough, towards him. “I was surprised to see Mr. Riffle here without you. I couldn’t imagine why you wouldn’t be here, also. You’re frightfully dull without him.”

                “Steady on,” Crowley said, reeling a bit.

                “Besides, old Azzy’s really in the soup this time, isn’t he?”

                “You mean you told her about your problem?” Crowley whispered to Aziraphale. “Is that really wise?”

                “You don’t even know what it is yet,” Aziraphale whispered back. There was something rummy about his expression. A sort of strained, smiley look, the kind he’d gotten way back when Crowley had asked him ‘Say, where did that flaming sword of yours get to?’ Crowley smelled trouble.

                “Of course I know about it,” Ora said. “Evie’s spoken of nothing else since it happened. Ever since she and Azzy got engaged, the girl’s mouth won’t stop.”

                “Engaged?” The serpent goggled, the jaw dropped, though luckily not fully as much as serpent’s jaws are capable. “You’ve gone and gotten yourself engaged?”

                “I didn’t mean to,” Aziraphale said wretchedly. “It’s not my _fault_.”

                “Not your fault? I thought you called me down here because you wanted to ask a favor. Don’t tell me you’ve summoned me down to the countryside because you wanted to pop open a bottle and celebrate your upcoming nuptials.”

                “Don’t be absurd,” Azzy tutted. “I called you here because I need your help. I need your advice, your expertise at wriggling your way out of unfortunate situations.”

                Ora was looking back and forth at the both of them with her hands on her hips. “Well,” she said, “if she wants to be married to you in the first place, and still does after seeing the two of you together, and hearing any of your bizarre conversations, I’d say there’s no hope. But I’ll wish you good luck anyway. Come on, it’s almost time for dinner.”

                “Yes, all right,” Crowley said, with a look at the angel. “I suppose you’d better introduce me to the _fiancée_.”

                It was only when they had turned and started to walk towards the house that Crowley noticed it. The sight nearly winded him. He clutched his chest and took a few steps back. “Angel. _What_ is on your feet?”

                “Oh, do you like them?” Azzy beamed. He did a little shuffle to show them off. He had found the world’s only pair of tartan wingtip oxfords. Both tones were tartan, one green and red, the other purple and yellow. A tear very nearly escaped the corner of the demon’s eye. He pulled himself together.

                “Ah, yes,” he said coolly. “They’re very nice, angel.”

                “Hold on a minute,” Azzy said, squinting at him. “You do think they’re nice, don’t you?”

                “Quite so, angel,” he said, his voice chillier than an autumn evening.

                “Really? Because I’m quite fond of them, you know, and I won’t have you making me doubt in them. Sometimes you try to take more of a say in what I wear, and I’m not having it this time, dear boy.”

                “Indeed, angel,” Crowley said, and he walked away toward the manor.

 

                He met the intended once they were inside. She was a feathery sort of girl by the name of Evelyn Gardner. She fluttered around Aziraphale and clung to his arm as though she needed it for support, but the manner in which she then proceeded to march the both of them around the room suggested otherwise. She seemed a nice enough girl, nonetheless, and Crowley thought the sooner they got her disentangled with the angel, the better, even if it was her own appalling taste that had gotten her into the mess in the first place.

                “You know, Miss Gardner,” Crowley began, once he’d got her and Azzy in the corner of the room.

                “Please, call me Evie,” she said sweetly.

                “All right. Evie, old thing, listen. What’s all this about you wanting to tie the knot with Azzy Riffle, eh? I mean, he’s hardly the most dashing of fellows, what?”

                “Now really, my dear,” Azzy said with a frown.

                “I mean to say, just look at the dashed man’s shoes!”

                “Hold on a minute,” Evie said. “So he’s not dashing, but he is dashed?”

                “Well, really,” Crowley mused, “it’s the shoes that are dashed.”

                “I think this is hardly the proper language to use around a young lady, Crowley!”

                “I would’ve said deuced, myself,” Evie said ponderously. “But I supposed dashed is good enough.”

                Aziraphale drew himself up and clacked the heels of his shoes together defensively.

                “But that’s exactly what I mean,” Crowley plodded on. “Why would you want to go marrying someone like that?”

                “Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” she said with wide eyes. “Isn’t he positively adorable? He doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks. If he wears those shoes, he mustn’t!”

                Crowley was spared from thinking of a response by the call to dinner.

 

                After they’d eaten, Ora took Evie out on a nighttime stroll by the ornamental koi pond, and Crowley and Aziraphale were left with Lady Sophia. Evie was her niece, so naturally she was entirely opposed to the engagement as well, and they felt safe in discussing their plans of escape around her.

                “I am relieved that you brought your friend here, Mr. Riffle,” she said in her rumbling but dignified sort of voice. “If anyone can get us out of this, it’s him. I don’t know why you didn’t send for him earlier. You’re completely useless without him.”

                “I say,” Azzy cried. “I mean, really!”

                “Oh, don’t put up such a fuss.” Lady Sophia turned to Crowley. “Well? Have you concocted one of your schemes?”

                “Not yet, I’m afraid.”

                “Well, what the devil are you waiting for?”

                “What the devil indeed,” Aziraphale muttered.

                “I’m sorry, Aunt Sophia, but I’ll need to consider the matter more closely before I can wrap the brain around the issue and squeeze out a solution.”

                “Aunt Sophia,” Aziraphale said. She wasn’t Aziraphale’s aunt, of course, or Crowley’s, but there was a sort of auntiness about her, which would probably have extended to the outer reaches of the globe, had she not had to stay around her part of the country to help with organizing the festival every spring. “She is your niece. Isn’t there anything you can do to persuade her?”

                “I may be her aunt,” Lady Sophia said with a significant look, “but I couldn’t stop her. She may look as wispy as a daffodil in a summer breeze, but the girl’s surprisingly strong-willed. Not even her own parents would be able to sway her, I’m afraid.”

                “Then there’s nothing for it but that we’ll have to come up with something, Crowley,” Azzy said. “We’ll have to find some way to put her off me.”

                “Wish I could, old soul. I only wish I knew what put her on you in the first place.”

                At that moment there was the crash of a door opening, and the sound of angry feet marching into the room. Evie swooped in, followed a moment later by Ora. The fiancée stood in the center of the room like a private detective in a crime novel who had gathered together all the suspects and was about to reveal the murderer. She raked her gaze over the lot of them.

                “If anyone in here is not a _real_ person,” she exclaimed, “then I do not wish to be in your company for a moment longer!”

                Aziraphale and Crowley both flinched and felt their heart stop and the blood quicken, and all of those contradictory things that are supposed to happen to chaps who’ve had the rug pulled out from under them and had their crimes exposed, and all that, according to authors of aforementioned crime novels. They both glanced at each other. Crowley had sometimes wondered if Ora didn’t suspect something was amiss with the two of them, but he had never thought she’d discovered that they were both somewhat wanting in the department of being entirely human.

                Evie arched her eyebrows at them all. “I mean it,” she said. “I am completely finished with fake people!”

                Crowley squirmed, and Aziraphale did a mental jig to try to remember if he’d ever accidentally let his wings show around the manor, or if the minor miracles he’d pulled turning his tea into cocoa earlier had been too discernible.

                “People pretending to be one way when they’re really another,” Evie went on. “Just to follow the rules of society! People never saying what they really mean. Why, do you know what letter I just received from a man I almost married back home? It’s another letter saying he’s sorry for plunging into the hydrangeas to avoid being seen with me in public a fortnight ago. I had accidentally put on two shoes that didn’t match, you see, and the incident, apparently, would have shamed himself, his family, and his great aunt’s parrot, had anyone seen the two of us together. Now he’s sent me another letter of apology, and what does he say in his defense? That he didn’t tell me about my mismatched shoes because he wanted to spare my feelings! He wanted to avoid the awkwardness of the conversation, in truth, no doubt. Well, he should have stood by me, mismatched shoes or not, if he really wanted to marry me, and if he really worshipped the ground beneath my feet as he claimed, he should have been willing to do so regardless of how my feet were currently clothed. I cannot abide by this dishonesty any longer! Why, that’s why I knew I wanted to marry you, Azzy. You never care one jot what anyone thinks of you at all. You just say whatever’s on your mind.”

                “Well I never,” Aziraphale said. “I mean, really. What?”

                “You see?” Evie said with a fond smile. “Anyone who would stutter on like that must be brimming with openness and honesty.”

                Crowley felt like something sticky that had been thrown against a wall and was only just beginning to come loose and slide down to the ground. He was relieved, at least, that their true natures had not been discovered.

                “Well,” he said, “I can see what you mean. It takes a certain thingummy to be as straightforward as Azzy Riffle.”

                “Crowley,” Aziraphale hissed.

                “Quite so!” Evie agreed.

                “Of course, it also comes with a certain thinginess that’s not so pleasant, don’t you know. He can be a bit of a rude blighter sometimes.”

                “Crowley!”

                “I’d rather he be rude than insincere,” Evie said, raising her nose in the air and waltzing back to where Ora was standing.

                “Well, he can be that, too,” Crowley added, but Evie was already in mid-box-step, and she and Ora had waltzed out the door within a moment. Crowley turned back to Aziraphale.

                Aunt Sophia harrumphed. “ _That_ went well. Here I was thinking the two of you might actually be useful.”

                “I suppose I could have expressed sympathy for the lad,” Aziraphale said. “That might have made her feel less chummy towards me.”

                “Fear not,” Crowley said, raising a finger to his temple with a sly grin. “I might have a plan that’ll get you out of this, yet.”

                “There’s the good old fighting spirit,” Lady Sophia said approvingly.

                “‘Old spirit’ is right,” Aziraphale mused. “I can’t say he was ever particularly good at fighting.”

                “She means ‘fighting’ in a marching on, persevering kind of way, you old harpist.”

                “I see, dear boy.”

                “Anyway, you just leave it to me. I’ll have you un-intended from the girl in a jiffy.”

                “Anything you can endeavor to do, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, looking a bit worse for wear, “would be greatly appreciated.”

 

                It was really a very simple plan. All Crowley had to do was to wait until Evie had abducted Aziraphale for a pleasant lovers’ chat about the blue of her eyes and whether or not hyacinths, deep pools, or the sky were a better match for their particular shade. Then he merely had to sidle into the angel’s room, pinch the shoes that had been offending his eyes all day, and which the angel had swapped out somewhat optimistically an hour earlier for bedroom slippers, and sneak out of the manor in the dark of the night to dispose of them properly. Then, he had only to wait.

                The next morning, he strategically dithered around the koi pond until Evie happened to pass by on her morning stroll. There he approached her, his expression the picture of neighborly concern.

                “What-ho, Evie,” he said, in tones dripping of tragedy. “Don’t look into the pond, old thing, unless you want to see something truly rummy.”

                “What is it?” Evie said, craning the neck to look around him.

                “No, no,” Crowley maintained, ushering her forward. “I couldn’t allow it. The shame. My old friend. Your betrothed. No, it really is too much.”

                “For heaven’s sake, man,” Evie said, hands on her hips, peering into the pond distrustfully. “What the deuce is it? Where’s all this shame and what rot that you’ve been blathering about?”

                “There.” He pointed helpfully. “In the middle of the pond. Do you see them?”

                “Why, those are Mr. Riffle’s shoes!”

                “Yes. I’m afraid so, Evie. You see, late last night, old Azzy and I were taking a walk—“

                “What, late last night? I was talking to Azzy till past midnight.”

                “Yes, well. He’s a bit of a nighthawk, you see.”

                “That’s odd. I thought he was one of those birds who gets up at the crack of dawn.”

                “Anyway,” Crowley marched on, “we were walking last night, when some ruffians saw him in his new shoes, and found the sight of them so absurd that there was nothing for them to do but to relieve him of the atrocities and to bung them in the water with the fishes.”

                “Great Scott!” Evie cried. “Did they really?”

                “They did, I’m afraid. So, you see, that’s the not-so-sunny side of being around a person who doesn’t care what others think. Sometimes the others who are doing the thinking put a bit of action behind their thoughts, and then, what’ve you got, but a man in his socks and an abomination in the fish pond.”

                “This is all very startling,” Evie said, her eyes widening from pools to proper lake-sized orbs. “What did Azzy do?”

                “Do? There was nothing for him to do. He’s not the most intimidating sort of fellow, you know. He shinned it back home in his socks. I don’t believe we’ll be seeing much of him today until he recovers. He’s ashamed, you see.” The truth was, he’d advised Aziraphale to stay in his room until later in the day so he could spread the story around before the angel could ruin it. After his late-night musings on shades of blue, Azzy had accepted the idea gratefully.

                “I am sorry he was assaulted by ruffians,” Evie said. “But he should know that he doesn’t need to be ashamed around me.”

                “Oh, but he is. Embarrassed to the brim. Abashed. Chagrinned. Completely mortified.”

                “That is a pity. Did the ruffians harass you as well?”

                “What? Oh, no. No, no. They know who to harry and who not to. Erm. Of course not.”

                “Well,” Evie said. “I’m so glad you’ve told me this, Crowley. I see why you were so determined to put me off poor old Azzy.”

                “Yes, precisely! You can see that being married to a blighter like that would only invite trouble.”

                “Mr. Riffle isn’t really the one I should be engaged to at all, is he?”

                “Not at all, old girl,” Crowley said, quite pleased with how well things were going.

                “No,” Evie said thoughtfully. “I can see much more clearly now the type of man I would _really_ want to marry.”

                “Yes, exactly, quite so!”

                “Yes, I understand that precisely now,” Evie said, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, Crowley, I’m so happy I’ve realized how wrong I was before! And now I know the truth.”

                “Yes, well, me too. Glad that’s all settled, then.”

                Crowley left her there to gaze wistfully into the pond, while he strutted back to the manor, whistling as he went, looking forward to telling Aziraphale how well his plan had worked.

 

                “So, you mean, dear boy, I’m no longer engaged?”

                “No, my haloed friend,” Crowley said proudly. “Your short engagement will soon be no longer.”

                “My golly!” Aziraphale cried. “That is good news! I suppose this means I don’t have to hide myself away in my room anymore.”

                “Yes, well, before you go about putting on proper clothes, and that sort of thing, there is one thing I should mention.”

                “However did you do it?” Aziraphale asked, looking around for a fresh pair of socks.

                “That’s what I’ve got to tell you. It occurred to me that Evie might not be so keen on you if she realized that you weren’t so much a bold individualist as an antiquated old bunch of feathers whose fashion sense appalls everyone around him.”

                Aziraphale looked at him the way a badger might look at a snake who had come round his home and ignored his ‘No Soliciting’ sign. Crowley hurried on.

                “So, I made up a story about how some blokes disagreed with your brash eccentricities, and how it got you into heaps of trouble, causing you to run home and hide yourself away in disgrace. It’s a _good_ thing, you see—“ Crowley rushed on, before Aziraphale could look even more badger-like, “—because the story makes you pitiable, but the fact that you hid yourself away has made Evie give up the idea of marrying you entirely.”

                “Well,” Aziraphale said, wiping his brow and sitting back on the bed. “I suppose it’s not the worst outcome we could have hoped for. At least I’m no longer betrothed. I must thank you for that, my dear.”

                “Not at all,” Crowley said cheerfully. “Although there is one more thing I should add. You see, the scaly part of it is the shoes.”

                “I thought those were your feet.”

                “What? No, not _my_ shoes—my feet, I mean— _your_ shoes. You see, that’s the scaliest bit. I’m afraid I may have inadvertently chucked them into the pond.”

                “My dear boy,” Aziraphale said evenly. “When you say ‘may have’, are you referring to the possibility that my shoes may or may not be in the pond, or to the word ‘inadvertently’?”

                Crowley declined to answer.

                “Still,” Azzy sighed, once he had gotten over his mourning. “I can’t complain, can I? And you got what you wanted, though I suppose you’ve earned it. I won’t make you fish my shoes out of the pond, so long as my engagement really is off.”

                “It is, angel,” Crowley said, beaming. “I’m quite certain.”

                “Oh, your engagement’s off, all right,” came a new voice, sounding less like a badger contemplating an irritating serpent, and more like a hawk who was already mid-dive towards a snake who had been blowing raspberries at it. Ora stormed into the room. Azzy Riffle clutched his robe more tightly around himself.

                “Hallo, Ora,” Crowley said.

                “Don’t you hallo me, you blithering bumbling blister!”

                “What’s this?” Crowley exclaimed.

                “You may have gotten Azzy disengaged with Evie,” she said. “But now she says she’s going to marry you, instead!”

                Crowley was bowled over. He sank slowly onto the edge of Aziraphale’s bed. The angel was glaring at him disapprovingly.

                “Now, really, Crowley.”

                “I didn’t mean for this to happen!” the demon cried. “How could she have gotten it into her head that I wanted to marry her?”

                “Apparently your trying to convince her not to marry Azzy made her think you wanted to marry her, instead. Think about it.”

                Crowley had gone a bit pale. He put his face in his hands.

                “This won’t do at all, Crowley,” Azzy tutted. “I think perhaps I _will_ make you fetch my shoes out of the pond.”

                “Help me,” Crowley groaned through his fingers.

                At that moment, Lady Sophia burst in through the door. Aziraphale yelped and began to protest about the number of people in the room whilst he was still in his nightgown, but they ignored him completely.

                “What’s this I hear about you being engaged to my niece?” the lady of the house boomed. Crowley attempted to shrink himself.

                “Don’t worry, Aunt Sophia,” Aziraphale said. “I’m certain I can think of some way to—“

                “Don’t worry, indeed!” Aunt Sophia cried. “Tush and pish! I deeply regret the day I let the two of you near any of my relations.”

                “If I ever have a niece,” Ora added in solidarity, “and my brother seems determined to be sure that I do, or if I ever have any descendants at all, I shall be sure to keep them well away from the two of you.”

                “Look,” Crowley said desperately. “Maybe I can persuade her to go back to her old fiancé, the one before Riffle, I mean—“

                “I do not mean to be impolite, young man,” Lady Sophia said imperiously, one eyebrow raised, “but I do not believe you could persuade a monkey to take a banana.”

                Crowley hid his face again and moaned.

                “We’re simply going to have to come up with another plan,” Azzy said. “ _I’ll_ think of one this time.”

                “Think of one later,” Ora said. “Here she comes now!”

                To scatter away in all directions and promptly vanish, leaving Crowley abandoned and alone, was, with the rest of them, the work of a moment. Crowley had no sooner stood up in dismay than Evie had floated in. She spotted him and drifted over like a cloud enjoying a ride on a gentle zephyr towards someone who had forgotten their umbrella.

                “Hallo, Crowley,” she said. “I was just coming to tell Azzy that our engagement is off, and now to my surprise I find you in his room, instead.”

                “Yes,” Crowley said miserably. “I’m always doing strange things like that.”

                “You are so odd,” Evie said. “Unapologetically, at least. Anyway, have you seen him? I need to let the poor fellow know.”

                “I’ve told him.”

                “Oh, jolly good! Did you also tell him about us?”

                “Er,” Crowley said. “In a way. He knows, at any rate.” He brightened as he got an idea. “Although, he was a bit befuddled by the whole change in direction in regards to your upcoming nuptials. I wasn’t sure what to tell the old chap. What explanation should I give him? How should he be de-fuddled?”

                “Well, it all started when I realized that he was still vulnerable to the opinions of others. If he gets put in such a state from a little tiff over his footwear, then how can I know he’ll stand steadfast by me no matter what I do? I confess, Crowley, that I also suspect that he’s only unfashionable by accident.”

                “Oh, he tries to dress well,” Crowley admitted. “He’s just a few decades behind the times.”

                “No,” Evie mused, sitting on the bed next to Crowley, who had to shimmy a bit to the left to avoid brushing against her and causing who knows what sort of message to be relayed. “What I want is someone who is bolder with their choices, who truly rebels from society. Someone like you. When you told me those men didn’t mess with you, I knew you must be the type of person who wouldn’t let anyone question his judgment.”

                “Now, wait a minute,” Crowley said. “I think the reason those blighters didn’t bother me is because my appearance didn’t give them any reason to do so.”

                “Quite right!” Evie said. “They knew there would be no point in accosting you for, say, your own strange shoes, or for those ridiculous spectacles you always wear.”

                “I say!” Crowley said, and then proceeded not to do so.

                “No. If they left you alone, it must certainly have been due to your evidently unflinching personality.”

                As pleased as Crowley was at finding that he’d successfully gotten round to having a discernable personality, he was not quite cheered by this account of it.

                “You have a sort of whatsit about you that makes critics balk,” Evie said admiringly. “A sort of devil-may-care bearing about you that makes it clear you don’t give a damn for the opinions of anyone else.”

                “Well,” Crowley said pathetically, “a devil may care _sometimes_.”

                “Kindly tell Mr. Riffle that I hope he’s not too upset,” Evie said, “and that I do hope we can still be friends. I’ve got to go and meet Ora now, as I promised I’d go golfing with her. Try not to get into too much trouble without me. Toodle-pip.”

                With that, she pranced out of the room.

 

                “Tell me you’ve thought of something,” Crowley said, pacing the room and rubbing his temple. His head felt like somebody had been playing golf inside of it.

                “Worry not, my dear,” Azzy replied. “I have good reason to believe that we will have you extricated from this sticky situation by tomorrow afternoon.”

                “Pardon me for worrying,” Crowley cried, “but I’m engaged, by Jove!”

                “I don’t believe I’ve ever met this ‘Jove’,” Aziraphale said, narrowing his eyes.

                “Oh, never mind.”

                “Never mind, indeed,” Aunt Sophia said, her fur shawl bristling. “My niece has gone and gotten herself engaged first to a man called Azzy Riffle, then one called—what _is_ your first name, Crowley?”

                “Crowley has a first name?” Ora said, amazed.

                “I’ll tell you plenty of things Crowley hasn’t got,” Aunt Sophia barked. “A spine, he hasn’t got. A brain neither. Apparently the only thing Crowley _has_ got is a fiancée, and I’ve had quite enough of this situation.”

                “Crowley has got good old Azzy Riffle, at least,” Ora said. “What’ve you got up your sleeve, Azzy?”

                “A few ideas, my dear. Firstly, what is the opinion of the young lady in question concerning reptiles?”

                Crowley blanched. “Azzy! You can’t really—“

                “I think you’ll find, my dear,” Azzy interrupted him politely, “that if Miss Gardner does not approve of serpents, and you were to have a _pet_ serpent, she might not be quite so fond of you.”

                If asked later, Crowley would have said that he had hissed in relief, but in truth it sounded rather more like the drawn-out, high-pitched squeakish sort of sound that a tea kettle makes.

                “I’m afraid that won’t work,” Aunt Sophia said. “The girl isn’t bothered by slithering things. She was once quite taken by a man who collected newts.”

                Ora wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never much cared for newts, myself.”

                “Then we shall have to resort to stopping the stream of her affections at the source,” Azzy said. “She believes that she likes you for who you are, therefore we shall have to inform her that you actually _aren’t_ , and therefore she has no reason to like you at all. We must look to the cause of the initial attraction. Here is my plan.”

                Azzy told them the plan. There was some raising of the eyebrows and much consideration, but by the end of it, everyone but Ora was convinced that it would work.

                “I don’t foresee a good outcome for this,” she said. The others resolutely ignored her.

                “So, Crowley, my dear,” Azzy said. “Do you know what you have to do?”

                “Yes.”

                “Are you sure, dear boy?”

                “Yes,” Crowley repeated, getting irritated.

                “Quite positive, my dear?”

                “Yes, and no more ‘my dears’ and ‘dear boys’,” Crowley snapped. “Dispense with them. Chuck them out of your repertoire. Expunge them from the vocabulary, so to speak.”

                “Very well,” Azzy sighed. “Then the plan is set in order.”

                “Not a moment too soon,” Ora said. She was leaning into the hallway adjacent to their room, and when she leaned back in again, she gave Crowley a look. “Here she comes now.”

                “Best be off,” Azzy told him. “She’ll probably be wanting to ask you what _your_ opinion is concerning the shade of blue of her eyes, to compare notes.”

                At that, Crowley legged it, and legged it pretty well, one might note, for one who had only spent a fraction of his time on Earth having legs at all.

 

                The plan, once again, involved pinching somebody’s shoes, only this time, Crowley was to nick one shoe each from two different people. That was to say, he was to replace one of Evie’s shoes with one of Ora’s, as the old girl had graciously accepted being a part of the ordeal despite her misgivings. The idea was that when Evie inevitably ended up wearing two shoes of a different nature from one another, Crowley would tremble at the sight, he would gasp and clasp the chest and look away in scorn and despair, and he would denounce her as someone with whom he could not be seen in public, just as her old betrothed had done. She would renounce him in turn, and all would be well, at least Crowley very well hoped so, as he thought it was high time he got this infernal engagement over with and was headed home in his new Bentley.

                Crowley had invited Evie to take a stroll with him by the koi pond around mid-morning. She flitted across the fine summer day towards him, looking unnervingly high-spirited. As she approached, Crowley glanced at her feet. The shoes were mismatched. His spirits—or whatever he could be said to have in their place—soared. Things could hardly go wrong now.

                “Hullo, Crowley,” Evie said.

                “Hallo,” Crowley replied. He prepared himself to gasp dramatically. “I say—“

                “Don’t worry. I’ve noticed the shoes.”

                “Oh.” Crowley had been waiting to gasp, and so had deflated himself as much as possible. He looked pointedly at her feet. He said, his voice strangled, “I say—!”

                “I know it was you, you old romantic.”

                That rather knocked the wind out of him, and since there had hardly been any in him in the first place, as he had been waiting for the perfect gasping moment, this resulted in him making a sort of choking, sputtering noise. He managed to gasp for real. “What?”

                “That was the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me,” she said, fluttering towards him and seizing his arm. “Switching out my shoes so we could both show the world how little we care for its blasted opinions!”

                “Now, see here,” Crowley said. “That’s all good and well, but dash it, I did no such thing!”

                Evie looked about to argue, but Ora was walking over toward them. Crowley was not sure if he should be bothered or relieved. Evie greeted her, and Crowley stood by her side dumbly. The plan was not going as smoothly as could be hoped. He had a feeling it was about to get even less smooth when he saw Ora peer into the koi pond and let out a gasp that far rivalled his own from earlier.

                “That fish has got itself stuck!”

                “Stuck?” Evie leaned over the pond, and Crowley followed her morosely.

                “Yes. You know, I think it’s—yes, it is! It’s stuck in a shoe!”

                “Don’t be silly,” Crowley said. “What would a shoe be doing in—oh, gosh!”

                With the girls as spectators, Crowley did a little jig around the pond’s edge, then found a stick and managed to fish out the shoe and attached, well, fish. He fiddled with it, being splashed all the while from some residue pond water on the fish’s fins, and then was able to detach the wriggler and return it to its preferred murky depths. Crowley sat back and sighed, only to realize that he had become the source of entertainment for the two girls who were now laughing at him heartily.

                “Why, you old softie,” Ora chortled.

                Crowley reddened. This was not the sort of designation a demon was supposed to have. A proper demon, that was, was meant to be accused of being vicious and cruel. His métier was in question.

                “I am no such thing,” he said proudly.

                “Oh yes, you are,” Ora laughed. “You may pretend to be some sort of devil-may-care blister upon society, but you’re harmless, really. Really, you wouldn’t presume to interrupt the busy schedule of a flea, would you? You’re too considerate.”

                “I am not. Just last night I stole Evie’s shoes. That wasn’t very ‘considerate’ of me, was it?”

                “No you didn’t. I did. Look, I’m wearing the other half of each pair.”

                “Oh, Ora!” Evie cried. “That’s hilarious!”

                “What? Nonsense! I was the one who stole them!”

                “Now, Crowley,” Evie reprimanded. “Only a moment ago you were claiming that it wasn’t you. I believe Ora is right. You could never do something so mischievous.”

                “I can and I have! I stole the bally things, just like I stole Azzy’s!”

                “You told me ruffians threw them into the pond?”

                “No, I did!”

                The two of them gawked at him. It was at that moment that Crowley realized his mistake. He gulped.

                “Why, you snake,” Evie said. “That’s positively treacherous!”

                “Undeniably so,” Ora said, her expression slightly pleased.

                “I’ll bet you made up that whole story just to get me to marry you, instead,” Evie cried. “Poor old Azzy! Out a fiancée _and_ a pair of shoes—although they were dashed ugly things.” She eyed Crowley pensively. “Still, he didn’t deserve it all.”

                “Here he comes now,” Ora said. Sure enough, Azzy was pottering down the hill toward them. “Hullo, Azzy! We were just discussing Crowley’s betrayal of you.”

                “What’s this?” Azzy cried. Crowley groaned.

                “I think,” Evie said, a hand on her chin, finger tapping her cheek, “that what this calls for is some retribution. Some paying back of the crime. I think, Crowley, that you should throw _your_ shoes into the pond.”

                “Oh, yes,” Ora agreed. The two of them stood, nodding and waiting impatiently for him to do so.

                Crowley balked.

                “Go on, then.”

                “Er,” Crowley stammered. “I say. I really can’t do that.”

                “Don’t tell me it’s because you’d be too embarrassed,” Evie scoffed. “Azzy, tell Crowley that he is to throw his shoes into the pond, at once, to make up for what he did to yours.”

                “Er,” said good old Azzy Riffle. “Well. You see, he’s really quite attached to them.”

                “Oh, you old pills,” Evie said, with a scornful turn of the head and sniff of the nose. “If you won’t do this very simple thing for me, then I don’t think I want to be engaged to either of you. In fact, I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps I ought not to marry any men at all!”

                “Hear! Hear!” Ora cried. The two of them joined arm in arm, and walked away from them, off towards the horizon, which, coincidentally, was painted the exact shade of cerulean blue that matched Evie’s eyes.

                The angel and demon stood in silent contemplation for a while. The koi glided about in their pond, quite pleased to find it now shoe-free, and, better yet, two-toned-tartan-shoe-free. Crowley leaned back with his hands in his pockets and gave a short laugh.

                “You know, old feathers,” he said, “I hadn’t quite glimpsed the blue sky after the storm until now. Funny how that works.”

                “Quite so. I suppose it’s part of what makes life ineffable.”

                “Really? Do you think it’s part of the Ineffable Plan at work again?”

                “I hardly think this had anything to do with that, do you?”

                “Not really. But it does bring the old I.P. to mind. I mean, humans don’t really care about whether or not their friends are good or bad, do they? Take a look at Evie. She didn’t care if you were a baddish or a goodish sort of fellow, only whether or not you were sincere. It’s all a bit rummy, what? I mean, if you think about it, that’s what makes life all so whatsit. It’s the thinginess of humans that makes them so rummy, but it’s that same thinginess that makes them, _them_. I say. What?”

                “What?” Azzy said.

                “Oh, nevermind.” Crowley wiped his foot on the grass, drying it from his fish-rescuing escapade. “I am glad it’s over, though.”

                “Me, too, dear boy.” Azzy gave a little shiver. “Er, sorry. I forgot you didn’t want me saying that anymore.”

                “Never mind about that,” Crowley said, staring ahead. “It’s not so bad. You can say it all you like—since it seems you can’t help it.”

                “Thank you, my dear,” Azzy said gratefully.

                The two of them watched the horizon. Eventually, Crowley turned to Azzy.

                “I think I’ve had about enough of country life for a while, what do you say, old chap? Shall we go?”

                “Yes, please,” Azzy said in relief. “Would you mind giving me a lift in that dashing new motor vehicle of yours?”

                “Not at all,” Crowley said, a goodish amount of pride in his voice. “Not at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Why couldn't they have just said that they didn't want to get married? Because they never do. This is what always happens in Jeeves and Wooster stories. I don’t make the rules.


End file.
